Common Misconceptions
by bonafake
Summary: IN PROGRESS: He has wings. And they're erogenous zones. DM/HG/TN, NM/OMC. Veela triad fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Common Misconceptions**

 _By: BonaFake_

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 **Warnings** : _Rated M for brief descriptions of sex later on. No worries. S'all chill._

 **Author's Note** : _I should_ _ **not**_ _be doing this right now. Seriously. I have like. Four in-progress fics and original fiction and tumblr drabbles. But either way, this is happening._

 _Let me give you a basic overview._

 _This is a triad veela creature fic. Cliches abound. I'm not apologetic. Not yet. Anyways, there are three "parts" to the story―Narcissa's part, Draco's, and Hermione's. None of it is prewritten. We're gonna be okay, but expect sporadic updates._

 _Anyways. Thanks for reading through this long-ass author's note, and sticking through this._

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 **Chapter 1**

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She has packed. She has gone over her checklist. She has reviewed her itinerary with her fiance even though she will more than likely not follow a single word of it. Except for Paris. She'll go there for sure. It's always sounded so beautiful and she is in desperate need of some beauty.

There has not always been very much beauty in Narcissa Black's life.

True, she was raised by one of the richest families in wizarding Britain, but it was not beautiful. It was far too real to be beautiful. Or too fake. She couldn't ever tell. Her mother raised her to be flawless, perfect, beautiful. And for the most part, she is. She is perfect, unlike her sister Andromeda who developed flaws and that was a problem. No. She is perfect.

And that is the justification she uses to go on her trip around the world, using muggle transportation and muggle money and muggle everything. If she was not perfect, she could not have done this. But then again, if Narcissa Black was at all perfect, then she wouldn't be going on this trip, this miracle trip at all.

Because perfection is marrying right out of school to the highest pureblood bidder. Because perfection is a big eggshell cream wedding and a marriage consummated three months after the actual date on the expensive olive drab cardstock invitations so as to avoid any awkward counting backwards on fingers. Because perfection is quiet embroidery and joining the Ministry Ladies' Garden Club which most certainly does not discuss methods of poisoning various government officials and ways for their husbands to angle for power in the government. That's exactly what perfection is, to Narcissa, to her mother, but that's exactly what she's not.

Oh, granted, she'll probably do that as soon as she comes back from her travels. She'll arrange tastefully exotic flowers and grasses in fifty different shades of green for her wedding and embroider and fiddle with the engagement ring on her finger and join the Ministry Ladies' Garden Club and probably poison a few politicians of her own. Because that's what she's been made for; that's what she's been bred for, as if she was one of those krup puppies her mother selects and then kills through inbreeding. She is a krup puppy, ready to be killed through too many pure blood filled miscarriages and the infamous Black insanity that will destroy her soon enough.

But that's in a few months; when she returns from Greece and Italy and France and Spain and Egypt and Morocco. Then and only then will she subject herself to a lifetime of political alliances and arranged marriages. Once she has seen the world, she can die.

Marriage, in her mind, is a little bit like dying.

But of course she doesn't say a single word of this to her dear, dear, fiance. No. She lets him help her pack and then redoes it when he messes up, lets him shove the 24 carat diamond engagement ring onto her finger and then resizes it when it's too big, lets him book her flights throughout Europe and then rebooks them when they're at the wrong times. He tries. And it's very annoying.

But he's done it, and now she's ready. Narcissa Black kisses her mother goodbye on the cheek and gets ready to get on the plane. Lucius Malfoy has come to see her off. She practically brushes him away. Her father is looking at her with something in his eyes. She does not care.

Being on the plane is an experience. It's an experience that she wants to repeat. It's better than flying, faster and smoother and just flat out newer. She still loves flying on her Cleansweep Seven, of course. But this- airplane flying is better. She sits down and looks around with wonder at the people that stare at her like she's an exotic creature out of a fairy tale book. Narcissa is pretty sure that the muggles aren't all crazy. If they were, they would not be able to know that she is different.

She glitters. Not exactly, no. But she does all the same. She sparkles. She effervesces. And the muggles notice that. For that, she decides she actually kind of likes them.

Narcissa Black steps off the plane in Athens with a smile on her face.

The next few months ― the next few months are a dream. She travels, like nothing she's ever done before, like nothing anyone she knows has ever done before. Not they way she's known her family members to travel, sheltered in the best of hotels and apparating away with international licences and homemade portkeys. No. She walks down the streets, rents a motorbike and just goes, walks as far and as fast as she can, stays wherever she wants, travels.

And she sees vampires in Greece and death rituals in Egypt and werewolves in Spain ―

She travels. And she learns, too. There are hundreds of spells she's never heard of before, hundreds of people she's never met before. There is a hidden wealth of information that each person has, and Narcissa Black will take full advantage of it.

Traveling ― it is beautiful. It is wrong, and it is right. It is perfect, but it's really only perfect in its imperfection. She loves it completely, and without any reservations. Narcissa Black has never loved anything so without abandon before ― not her mother, not her father, not her sisters or her fiance. She's free. Perhaps that's why she found herself able to love the journey ― not because of the countries or new discoveries or anything else, really ― but because of her freedom.

It's an entirely new concept.

She loves it.

She can't ―

Not when she returns home, never then. But now ― now Narcissa is free to fall in love with whatever building she wants, whatever rivers she wants, whatever painting she wants ―

So she does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Common Misconceptions**

 _By: BonaFake_

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 **Warnings** : _Brief warning for self harm during Draco's point of view._

 **Author's Note** : _Hi again... It's been such a long time; so sorry! Thank you a ton for sticking with this little story. Well. Not so little anymore_ — _there's probably going to be about twenty some chapters. Reviews are loved and amazing! Thanks a ton to reviewers on the last chapter Evanelle, xXMizz Alex VolturiXx, and happiness8000! A quick note: this chapter switches back and forth in viewpoints from between Hermione and Draco, and is a pretty big time jump from Narcissa's point of view back in the 70s. Don't worry though; we'll be back there next chapter!_

 _Anyways, hope you enjoy! And remember, reviews make my day!_

###

 **Chapter 1**

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He has wings. And they're erogenous zones.

—

She walks through through the train, Draco in front of her. Her hand is carefully placed right in between his shoulder blades, his wings, dark and terrible and beautiful, so that he doesn't feel her. And she can hear whispers. "Who's the ―"

"A Death ―"

"How could ―"

"That mud ―"

Snatches of nasty words swim past her ears, yet all that she can do right now is guide him to a quiet enough compartment and try to get him to calm down. Silently, Hermione scolds herself for allowing Minerva McGonagall to send them to Hogwarts on the train. He shouldn't have, not in this state. A feather brushes up against her hand. She stops breathing for about a minute. It drifts past her, liquorice and midnight, multifaceted and soft.

Hermione lets it fall to the ground. She practically shoves the blond into an empty compartment and sits down in front of him. Draco Malfoy brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks at her with an odd expression. "So," he begins awkwardly.

"So," she says matter of factly.

"Look, I don't — don't know why you're still hanging around with me," Draco says, sounding stilted and scared.

"I don't either," says Hermione, patiently. "But I'll keep doing it."

"That's just lovely of you, Miss Granger," a cold voice drawls from the doorway.

Hermione whips around, drawing her wand. Her stomach tenses and she can feel that tight, anxious feeling of fight or flight, fight winning, every single time. It's her war reflexes, she knows, but sht still can't stop it. Too many months of being on the run and needing to be fast and quick and strong and she just. Can't slow down. "You just — oh." It's Theodore, standing against the entrance to their compartment.

"Come outside with me, Granger," he says. It's a dare, not a request, not a suggestion.

Hermione's never been one to back down from a dare.

They close the door behind them, leaving Draco molting all over their compartment and annoyed. Theodore picks up a feather and shakes it in her face. "What the fuck is this?" he demands. "Is Draco fucking —"

"He's molting," Hermione says, feeling weirdly defensive. It's not as though Theodore is threatening her or anyone she cares about. Not even a threat, really. Just feathers. Just Draco. Suddenly, though, neither of those feel like _just_ anything.

"Oh," Theodore says, and some of the tension relaxes from his shoulders.

Hermione hadn't even realized how tightly wound he was until he let it go. She wonders if maybe Draco's the same way.

"He's doing fine," she says carefully.

"Got on good? Everyone being —"

"No. They — I can't explain it, really. But they're — and it's not all him, either. Some of it is about me."

"That's not allowed," Theodore says. His jaw clenches and unclenches. "Who are they, Granger? That's not — it's not okay."

"Says the — never mind," she snaps, then stops.

Theodore raises an eyebrow.

"It was nothing," she insists. "It — whatever."

"Whatever you say."

—

Draco wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday to cold rain beating at his window and feathers.

The rain isn't unusual — they've had rain at the Manor ever since his father had been taken away from Azkaban. He thinks it's maybe because of the house, or probably his mother, crying and mourning and her harsh, emotion-driven magic shooting out uncontrollably and forming rain clouds, thunder, wind. He knows she's sad, broken, maybe, but he doesn't know what to do about it. On the day he'd returned from his first hearing, Draco had found his mother standing, stiff as a board, next to a pile of shattered, antique china — a family heirloom older than Draco and one of his mother's most treasured wedding gifts — and cradling her bloody fingers. He'd stared, and then walked up to his room, shut the door, and did not speak for another day.

The feathers, also, aren't unusual. His nails have torn countless goose down-filled pillows and woken up to fingers bitten down to the bloody quick and feathers scattered around the Egyptian sheets. But these feathers — they're black, luminescent even in the dim light from the lamp and windows. Opalescent, he'd say, if he believed in anything that pretty anymore.

Draco picks one up and twists it around in his hand.

—

Theodore returns to the compartment with Hermione. He nods at her, looking thoughtful, and she sits next to Draco and he is across from them both. It's an odd arrangement. She's barely friends with either of them, and yet Hermione can still feel his ankles twisting around hers underneath the table.

He places his hand on Draco's, looking at him steadily through bright blue eyes. "You're okay?"

Draco scoffs, and Hermione can feel that cocky, young boy start to return. Theodore does this for him; returns him to who he was before the war and everything after. It's good from him — something she wishes she could do herself sometimes, but no one does it better than he does. "Of course," is what he says. It's a lie.

—

He doesn't get out of bed that morning.

It feels as though his skin is itching under his shirt and he wants to take his skin off, shake it out, and maybe never put it back on. Sometimes he thinks that'd be nice — removing his face, twisting every recognizable feature and escaping — and then maybe sliding into a different life where he didn't have parole every single week and a mother who might be dead inside.

Draco scrapes at his skin, feeling it tear under his fingers.

He pulls his fingers back, though, after he feels something in his hands. "Oh," he says weakly. "Oh."

His hands, dried blood caked under the nails, the scars marking his palms, are filled with shimmering, ebony feathers.


End file.
